aground on some sandbar.”
They spent the evening excitedly listing to Wamalali Radio, an AM station in Punta Gorda. The city was most often mentioned by its nickname “PG.” There were also a number of FM stations broadcasting, but they were mostly playing music.
Proceeding cautiously, Simms piloted his boat though the Cays late the next afternoon. Not knowing what sort of passport controls might have been enacted under the current state of emergency, they thought it best to wait at anchor on the far side of Lark Cay until after dark. They could see lights dotted up and down the coastline. Then, as the next high tide approached, they motored quietly to the nearby point, past the Creole fishing towns of Placentia on the point and Big Creek opposite, on the mainland side. As they entered the twelve-mile-long Placentia lagoon, Simms was pleased to note that the local electricity was still on. “A good sign, that,” he told Angie.
The skipper ran the diesel engine at low revolutions for a quiet three knots as they progressed up the lagoon. Carston kept Angie constantly watching the depth finder. They passed by an odd mix of well-lit luxury homes-mostly at Seine Bight-and completely dark tin-roofed Creole and Garifuna shanties. They set anchor again just before dawn at the north end of the lagoon, near the village of Blair Atholl.
This end of the lagoon was very quiet. Just two other yachts were anchored nearby, with their sails covered and bright blue canvases snugged down over their stern piloting areas. From their stern markings, they could see that one was from Dunedin, Florida, and the other from Freeport, Texas. They soon learned that both of these yachts were under the protection of a paid “watchie man” from Blair Atholl. The black man, armed with a single- barrel shotgun, motored up in an ancient skiff with a round-topped outboard engine that looked like something from the 1950s. It used a hand-wound spin starting rope rather than a recoil starter. The man’s shotgun had a well-worn stock and had all of its metal parts covered with thick white grease that looked almost like wax. Andy surmised that it was for protection from salt water.
The watchie man, who spoke in a curious Belizean singsong voice, told them that the recently arrived owners of the boats had moved into houses nearby, one on South Stann Creek and one in the village of Georgetown. Neither of the owners, he said, had any plans to sail back to the United States. He also had been told to relay that neither boat was available for sale or rent.
Simms continued talking with the man, making barter arrangements to refill his yacht’s freshwater tanks, which were nearly depleted. Meanwhile, Andy went below and started gathering his gear. He explained to Angie: “I want to beat feet before anyone comes here with plans to do a customs inspection.”
Angie answered, “I think that’s wise, Andy. Of course, we won’t mention that you arrived with us. It’s best that you slip into the country the soft way.” After clearing her throat, she added: “Andrew, I’ll certainly miss the peace of mind that we’ve had with you on board. I think that buying a gun will be one of Carston’s first priorities here.”
Inflating the dinghy took less than fifteen minutes, and in the dead calm water of the lagoon, loading Andy’s gear was easy. The most time-consuming part was first mounting the dinghy’s engine and getting the fuel primed properly to feed the engine. As they packed the dinghy, Andy made his good-byes. Yvonne and Yvette were crying. Andy shook hands or hugged everyone but Simone, who just gave Andy a small wave from the doorway to the saloon.
Prescott, Arizona March, the Second Year
Life at the Four Families compound in Prescott continued in a routine to the point of monotony. Without electricity, just hand-washing the laundry was a huge chore. And there was plenty of other hard work, mainly involving gardening and firewood. Their evenings were short and fairly quiet. Tuesday and Thursday nights were “old radio show nights” at Doctor K.’s house. Dr. Karvalich had more than a thousand old radio shows on a set of twenty-six CD-ROMs in MP3 format. He had bought the collection through eBay several years before the Crunch for less than thirty dollars. These were played on his laptop. The most popular shows were comedies like
Saturday nights were movie nights, with movies on DVDs played on Alex’s seventeen-inch screen MacBook laptop.
Blair Atholl, Belize April, the Second Year
Motoring over to the Cay took only a few minutes. The village of Blair Atholl looked small. There was one fancy estate development to the south, at Bella Maya, and a collection of modest tin-roofed houses to the north, in the town of Blair Atholl itself. In between was a sign that said “Blair Holiday Cottages.” Since that sounded vaguely English, Carston steered toward it. They pulled up to the dock and were greeted by a rotund, aging English ex-pat named Peter Ivens. Ten minutes of quizzing Ivens made it clear that customs officials rarely checked this end of the lagoon, that the only reported troubles in Belize were near the Guatemalan border, and that he would be willing to store Laine’s baggage for a nominal fee.
After depositing Andy’s panniers and duffels on the dock, Simms shook Andy’s hand firmly and said, “Well . . . safe home, Andrew.”
“The Lord be with you, Skipper.”
He spent the next half hour talking with Peter Ivens, getting up to speed about the situation in Belize and Guatemala. He concluded that Belize was fairly stable but that Guatemala was in a state of crisis. Several key government officials in Guatemala, Ivens said, had fled the country-rumor had it for Honduras-and had hence left a power vacuum. Criminal gangs and Communist rebels had commenced wholesale violence. Thousands of Guatemalan refugees and bandits were crossing into Belize, Mexico, and Honduras.
Andy summarized his situation for Ivens. He mentioned that he had “seen the bright lights of Placentia” and said that he had “made entry into the country,” so the man assumed that Laine had cleared customs. Andy asked if there were any ships likely bound for the Gulf coast of the U.S. “Not a chance,” the man said bluntly. “From all reports, Belize is strictly a ‘to’ destination, since everything in all directions is substantially more risky. You’re sitting in the safe haven. You should think about staying here until things sort themselves out.”
Then Laine asked about buses heading to the Yucatan. Those, he was told, had all been suspended because of the Honduran and Guatemalan refugee situation.
“Is there somewhere I could rent a car?” Andy asked. The man chuckled in reply and said, “My boy, getting a hired car was difficult in most parts of Belize even
“Could I hire you to drive me up to the Mexican border?”
“Sorry, no. Fuel is nigh on irreplaceable at present. I can’t spare any. I’ve drained all the petrol from my utility and hidden the cans back in the jungle. If they steal my vehicle, they won’t get more than a quarter of a mile down the road.”
Laine pondered that for a moment and then asked, “Do you know anyone who might have a bicycle or a horse that’s for sale?”
“No, but you might go and make inquiries with some of the landholders at Stann Creek. They’ve lots of horses there.”
“Okay.” Laine gestured to his baggage and said, “Give me a few minutes to organize this gear.” Ivens nodded and sauntered off to his office. Andy sat near the end of the dock and sorted his baggage. The dock sat below a set of stairs from the walkway and office above, so he felt safely out of sight.
He decided to travel light. He pulled out a one-ounce American Eagle gold coin and most of his remaining silver coins. He left the rest of his gold hidden in the stove. He briefly debated taking the SIG pistol but decided that on this trip the risks would outweigh the rewards. He tucked the SIG and all of its accessories in the bottom of the duffel bag with the stove. Then he restuffed the bag full and padlocked it shut. The key went on the chain around his neck that held his dog tags and his P-38 can opener.
